Trapped
by HiroEB
Summary: Jonathan Harker is more trapped than he realizes. AU. Book based. DraculaxHarker.


Disclaimer: Dracula and all related characters were created by Bram Stoker. No profit was made from their use.

Author's note: I normally try to avoid writing in fandoms for a classic piece of literature, but I decided to make this fandom the exception. Dracula/Harker has always been a pet pairing of mine, but I see almost no fanfiction for it.

Any and all feedback is greatly appreciated.

Jonathan Harker sat at the old writing desk in his room, a blank piece of paper on the desk before him and a pen held loosely in his hand. He had been staring at the paper for felt like far too long to him, and he still had yet to make a single mark on the page. Jonathan knew he should finish writing a letter Mina before the candle on the far corner of the desk, his only source of light, burned out. Determined to write something, anything to her, Jonathan pressed the pen to the paper just when the sudden howl of wolves distracted him. The horrible sound served as a reminder of his current situation.

"I'm sorry Mina. God help me," whispered Jonathan, putting down the pen. Despite his apology, the letter was more for his sake than his fiancée's. The Englishman need a distraction from the terror's of the Count's castle. A mundane act of writing a letter to a loved one was comforting and gave him a sense of normalcy, but the sounds and sights of the night seemed to always fine ways to keep him in a state of nervous terror.

The distant howling of wolves once again filled the air. It brought to Jonathan's mind images of blood, the tearing of flesh, and all sorts primitive unspoken fears. The young man shook his head. Jonathan didn't want to think about such things. Memories of the assault on him a few nights before by the trio of demon women who had seduced him, almost drank his blood, flooded his mind. The entire act was predatory and reeked of animalism. And his captor, Count Dracula, was had the same aura; he was one of them. This was not the first the time Jonathan had these thoughts, but what was particularly frightening now was the realization that they didn't bother him as much anymore. With each passing night the surreal and demonic very slowly became more and more normal. Jonathan's heart beat faster.

"No, I won't panic. I must remain calm," Jonathan muttered to himself, getting up from his seat and pacing around the room. "It's my only hope to escape and return to Mina."

The wolves howled for a third time, long and loud. Something was different about their voices this time. Their cries sounded just a bit like music. Jonathan's complexion paled and sweat broke out on his forehead. Surely he was going mad, he thought while unconsciously rubbing two almost invisible wounds on his neck.

Dracula sat in a large, dusty armchair, surrounded by the rows and rows of antiquated volumes lining the selves of his library. Though his guest had not shown himself tonight, he had a contented smile on his face nonetheless. He may not be able to see Jonathan, but he could feel is presence and sense his thoughts. Dracula knew Jonathan very well, even better than the woman named Mina did. Dracula knew because Jonathan's own blood had betrayed him.

Blood was life; this was a simple fact that even the most primitive of human cultures knew. To drink the blood of another creature was to gain their life, to take the essence of their morality, for one's self. That was why blood was so powerful. There was more to blood, Dracula knew, if one knew how to truly taste it. To truly taste a person's blood was take their psyche and smash it open like an over ripe fruit, exposing the mush, juices, and seeds of the fruit for everyone to see. It was to know every part of your victim, to know their secrets, what make them who they are, their experiences, everything. Nothing would be hidden.

That's why he stopped his wives. They did not know how to do this. The young Englishman's blood was wasted on them. However, that trio of vapid porcelain dolls did understand the act of truly savoring blood; they knew that their master had done it to Jonathan. Their taunting when Dracula stopped them from feeding on Jonathan told him as much.

The Count frowned.

It was true that he did not love the young man, as he was incapable of truly loving anything, or at least not in the human understanding of the concept. But, the vampire, mused, surely it was close. After all, what he had done was more intimate than any human method of showing affection. Two lovers could strip each other bare and become one flesh, but not truly know one another. By truly tasting Jonathan's blood, however, Dracula had essentially exposed his soul to him.

And because of that, Dracula knew that all the layers of Jonathan's upbringing, his inhibitions and trite middle-classness, were slowly browning and peeling away like those of a rotting onion. The Count sensed Jonathan was aware of his transformation on some level, but did not understand what caused it or what exactly he was becoming.

But Dracula knew. And he knew that soon everything that Jonathan found repulsive would now comfort him. His senses would sharpen and the threats of disease and morality would be rendered harmless. Those silly thoughts of escaping would disappear with those fears for, Dracula thought, who tries to run from a lover?


End file.
